“I’m sure that has nothing to do with why the judge appointed him.” Sam had no choice but to get into Lenore’s car. The courthouse, a large, domed building, was directly across from the police station, but the one-way street made the driving route more circuitous. Because of Sam’s limited mobility, they would have to go up to the red light, then drive around the courthouse, then turn onto the street again.
Sam watched Charlie dart past a truck and leap over a concrete curb. She ran beautifully; arms tucked, head straight, shoulders back.
Sam had to look away.
She told Lenore, “This is a dirty trick. The hearing was scheduled for tomorrow morning.”
“Lyman does whatever he wants.” Lenore caught her eye in the mirror. “Cons call Carter ‘the Holy Grail.’ If he drinks before your trial, you’re likely to get life.”
“It’s a chalice, actually. In Christian tradition.”
“I’ll send Indiana Jones a telegram.” Lenore turned out of the parking lot.
Sam watched Charlie running across the courthouse lawn. She hurdled over a row of shrubs. There was a line out the door, but Charlie rushed past it, taking the steep stairs two at a time. “Can I ask you something?”
“Why not.”
“How long has my sister been sleeping with Mason Huckabee?”
Lenore pursed her lips. “That wasn’t the question I thought you would ask.”
That wasn’t a question that Sam thought she would ask, either, but it made a horrible kind of sense. The distance between Charlie and Ben. The way Charlie had teared up when she talked about Mason Huckabee.
Lenore asked, “You told Charlie who he is?”
Sam nodded.
“That oughtta make her feel like shit,” Lenore added. “Even more than she already does.”
“Not for want of defenders.”
“You know a lot for somebody who’s only been here five minutes.”
Lenore looped around the courthouse and drove to the back of the building. She stopped in front of an area that was clearly the loading zone for deliveries.
She told Sam, “Go up the ramp. Elevator’s on the right. Go down one floor to the sub-basement. That’s the holding area. And listen,” Lenore turned around to face her. “Rusty couldn’t get a peep out of Kelly yesterday. Maybe she’ll open up to a woman. Anything you can get would be better than what we’ve got now, which is zilch.”
“Understood.” Sam unfolded her cane. She felt sturdier on her feet as she got out of the car. Adrenaline had always been her ally. Anger ran a close second as she marched up a ramp intended for bulk toilet-paper deliveries and trash bins. The smell of rotting food from the dumpsters was noxious.
Inside, the courthouse was like every other courthouse Sam had entered, except there was an oversampling of good-looking men and women in camera-ready suits. Sam’s cane got her to the front of the line. Two sheriff’s deputies were stationed by the metal detector. Sam had to show her ID, sign in, put her purse and cane on the X-ray, show her legal credentials so that she could keep her phone, then wait for a female deputy to pat her down because the plate in her head set off the alarm when she walked through the metal detector.
The elevator was on the right. There were two sub-basement floors, but Lenore had told her to go down one floor, so Sam pressed the appropriate button and waited. The car was full of men in suits. She stood at the back. She leaned against the wall to take weight off her leg. When the doors opened, all of the men stepped aside so that she could leave the elevator first.
There were some things that Sam missed about the South.
“Hey.” Charlie was waiting by the door. She held a tissue to her nose, which had started bleeding, likely from the run. She took a breath and words rushed out of her mouth. “I told Coin you’re co-counsel. He’s super-happy—not. So is Lyman, so try not to piss him off even more. I heard Grail didn’t have a chance to talk to Kelly, but maybe check-see to make sure. She’s been sick since they brought her over. Clogged the toilet. I hear it’s a mess.”
“What kind of sick?”
“Throwing up. I called over to the jail. She ate breakfast and lunch no problem. No one else is sick, so it’s not food poisoning. She was horking when they brought her over about thirty minutes ago. She’s not detoxing. It must be nerves. This is Mo.” She indicated an older woman sitting behind the desk. “Mo, this is my sister, Samantha.”
“Don’t bleed on my desk, Quinn.” Mo did not look up from her keyboard. She snapped her fingers for Sam’s ID and credentials. She tapped some of the keys on her computer. She picked up the phone. She indicated a sign-in log.
The log was almost full. Sam signed her name on the last line below Carter Grail’s. The time stamp said he’d spent less than three minutes with Kelly.
Charlie said, “Lyman’s been here about twelve years. He retired up from Marietta. He’s a super hard-ass about procedure. Do you have a dress or a skirt in your suitcase?”
“Whatever for?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“Sure it doesn’t.” Mo put down the phone. She told Sam, “You’ve got seventeen minutes left. Grail drank away three. You’ll have to talk to her in the cell.”
Charlie slammed her fist on the counter. “What the fuck, Mo?”
“Charlie, I’ve got this.” Sam addressed Mo. “If the room isn’t available now, then you should inform the judge that we need to postpone the hearing until I have the necessary time to confer privately with my client.”
Mo grunted. She glared at Sam, waiting for her to back down. When she did not, the woman said, “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one.” She reached under her desk and pressed a buzzer. She winked at Sam. “Room’s on the right. Sixteen minutes.”
Charlie pumped her fist in the air, then sprinted toward the stairs. She was so light on her feet that she barely made a sound.
Sam moved her purse to her other shoulder. She leaned on her cane as she dragged through the door. She stopped in front of another door, effectively boxed in as the first door behind her closed. Another buzz, and the second door swung open in front of her.
Sam was besieged by the long-forgotten odors of a holding cell: putrid vomit mixed with an alkaline sweat, the ammonia of urine, the sewage stench from the one toilet that serviced roughly one hundred inmates a day.
Sam pushed herself off with her cane. Her shoes slapped brown puddles of water. No one had cleaned up the flooded toilet. There was only one inmate left in the holding cell, an older, toothless woman who was squatting on a long concrete bench. Her orange jumper bulked around her like a blanket. She moved slowly back and forth between her feet. Her rheumy eyes followed Sam as she walked toward the closed door on the right.
The knob turned before Sam could knock. The female deputy who came out looked burly and brusque. She closed the door, her back pressed to the opaque glass. “You the second lawyer?”
“Third, technically. Samantha Quinn.”
“Rusty’s oldest.”
Sam nodded, though she hadn’t been asked a question.
“The inmate has puked approximately four times over the last half hour. I gave her a pack of orange crackers and one can of Coke served in a Styrofoam cup. I asked if she wanted medical attention. She declined. You’ve got fifteen minutes before I come back in.” She tapped the watch on her wrist. “Whatever I hear when I come in is what I hear. You got me?”
Sam took out her phone. She set the timer for fourteen minutes.
“I’m glad we understand each other.”
The woman opened the door.
The room was so dark that Sam’s eyes could only slowly adjust. Two chairs. A metal table bolted to the floor. A flickering fluorescent light hanging crookedly from two furred lengths of chain.
&
nbsp; Kelly Rene Wilson was slumped over the table. Her head was wrapped in the cocoon of her folded arms. When the door opened, she jumped up to standing, arms at her sides, shoulders straight, as if Sam had called a soldier to attention.
Sam said, “You can sit down.”
Kelly waited for Sam to sit first.
Sam took the empty chair by the door. She rested her cane against the table. She reached into her purse for her notepad and pen. She changed out her glasses for her readers. “My name is Samantha Quinn. I’m your lawyer for the arraignment. You met my father, Rusty, yesterday.”
Kelly said, “You talk funny.”
Sam smiled. She sounded southern to New Yorkers and she sounded like a Yankee to southerners. “I live in New York City.”
“Because you’re cripple?”
Sam almost laughed. “No. I live in New York because I like it. I use a cane when my leg gets tired.”
“My granddaddy had a cane but it was wood.” The girl seemed matter-of-fact, but the clink-clink sound from her handcuffs indicated she was nervously bouncing her leg.
Sam said, “You don’t have to be afraid, Kelly. I’m your ally. I’m not here to trip you up.” She wrote Kelly’s name and the date at the top of her notepad. She underlined the words twice. She felt the odd sensation of butterflies in her stomach. “Did you speak with Mr. Grail, the attorney who came to see you earlier?”
“No, ma’am, on account of I was sick.”
Sam studied the girl. She spoke slowly, almost as if she was drugged. Judging by the S on the front of her orange jumper, they had given her an adult small, but the uniform was voluminous on her petite frame. Kelly looked wan. Her hair was greasy, speckled with pieces of vomit. As thin as she was, her face was round, angelic.
Sam reminded herself that Lucy Alexander’s face had been angelic, too.
She asked Kelly, “Are you on any medication?”
“They give me liquids at the hospital yesterday.” She showed Sam the bruised red dot near the crook of her right arm. “Through here.”
Sam transcribed the exact words. Rusty would need to get the girl’s hospital records. “You think they gave you fluids, but no medication?”